Page 13 of Nine Months to Bear
His calloused hands slide down my arms, adjusting my grip as he goes. The casual intimacy makes it hard to breathe. His fingers brush mine as they position my index finger over the trigger.
“Now, see those lines on top?” His breath stirs the hair at my temple. “Align them with your target.”
I’m staring straight ahead, but seeing nothing. My vision is red-tinged, pulsing to the beat of the drum between my legs. He’s so close I can feel his heartbeat against my spine.
It’s steady. Controlled. Everything mine is not.
“Breathe in.” His palm spreads across my hip, steady and warm. My skin burns through the thin fabric of my skirt. “Out…” His touch lifts, and I almost sway backward without the balance. “Now… kill him.”
The shot cracks like thunder. The recoil slams me back against Stefan’s chest and his arm instantly circles my waist to steady me.
My ears ring. My heart hammers. The paper target stands completely unharmed, but a section of the wall ten feet to the left is smoking. It’s a bad day to be a brick.
“Again,” he commands, not releasing me.
So I shoot again.
And again.
Andagain.
Each time, his body becomes more familiar against mine, his hands more confident in their corrections.
That being said, I continue to miss spectacularly. Stefan finds new ways to insult my aim with each horrible shot, but there’s an undercurrent of amusement in his voice that makes me determined to prove him wrong.
When I empty the clip, he hands me another. That one goes wanting, too. But on the third clip, finally, I pull the trigger—and praise Jesus, the bullet grazes the target’s shoulder. The very edge of the paper tears, but joy slams me straight in the chest.
“Good,” he murmurs as I whirl around, grinning triumphantly.
“Progress! I almost?—”
But then I realize he’s close. Much closer than I thought. And so, as I spin around, I come to a grinding halt with my lips half an inch from his.
Time slows, stills. His eyes drop to my mouth and my lungs forget how oxygen works.
“You’re a natural, Dr. Aster.”
My mouth opens and closes. I drop the gun to my side, stammering, “S-sorry.” I hate how breathless I sound. How pathetic I sound, apologizing for being close to him.
Especially when I can’t make myself pull away.
I need distance from his heat, his scent, the way his proximity scrambles my thoughts. What the hell is wrong with me? I came here to save my business, not drool over Boston’s most notorious billionaire.
My mother’s voice echoes in my head:Focus, Olivia. Excellence requires discipline.
The adrenaline from firing the gun courses through my veins, looking for an outlet I absolutely cannot afford. Which, I realize half an hour too late, was the plan. This is exactly what men like Stefan Safonov count on—the rush, the thrill, the momentary weakness that makes smart women do stupid things.
I take a deep breath, pull my shoulders back, and recalibrate. Finally, I take a step away from him. “Now that I’ve proven myself, can we discuss why I’m actually here?”
I sound steady and confident. It’s everything I’m not, but I’m praying to every god I know that Stefan can’t tell how much his little plan got to me.
He regards me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, he nods.
Without saying anything, he points to an adjacent stall. I peer over to see a single sheet of paper waiting there.
The header readsSurrogacy Agreement.
My brain is trying to decipher all the possible meanings when Stefan comes to stand next to me once again. “You wanted investors, but I have a better idea.”
